mercy williams // district three
Mar 6, 2014 19:58:43 GMT -5
Post by Stare on Mar 6, 2014 19:58:43 GMT -5
("mercy. mercy.") Every sound is a gunshot to your ears and you cringe away from them like a young child hiding from monsters in the shadows, pulling into yourself in order to seem small. (how old?) (by calculation? approximately 6221 days. seventeen years and then some.) You shy back against one wall of your cage as your fingers begin to twitch, one two three fingers bending at your command. The medicine is wearing off. (nueromuscular blocking drug. they don't call it that, but that's what it is.) Your palms glide against the smooth metal bars and breathing comes heavier, deeper. This is reality, where your limbs are your own and the strings don't bite into your skin. This body is yours. This mind is yours.
(where are you?) (the footsteps above and slightly cooler temperatures indicate that they house us beneath another structure, most likely their home or some other building owned by them. based off of the smoke that sometimes clings to their clothes, I'd deduce that we're still somewhere in District Three.) You've been living the nightmare for a long time now. You've memorized the faces around you, the sounds from above, the taste of the air. Sometimes when your head is your own you tilt it back, heart aching, and wish for the stars. (stars?) (self-luminous celestial bodies consisting of masses of gas held together by their own gravity in which the energy generated by nuclear reactions in the interiors are balanced by the outflow of energy to the surface, and the inward-directed gravitational forces are balanced by the outward-directed gas and radiation pressures. in almost all cases they are only visible from the surface of the earth at night.) (where are the stars, mercy?) Your eyes flutter closed and you whisper, your voice so soft you doubt any of the other prisoners hear you. "Forget the stars. Forget the stars."
(gone. out of my reach.)
Your fingers move from the bars of your cage to your face, rubbing at the muscles there. They feel over thin eyebrows and wide blue eyes, dipping into hollow cheeks. (are you starving?) (yes.) You were always thin but their abuse has made you positively skeletal, skin pulled taught over bones and joints so that you look like the puppet they so desperately want you to be. Your hand dips down and runs over your prominent collarbone before pressing against your rib cage, feeling your fluttering heartbeat. (seventy five beats a minute. normal.) (you're still alive.) (barely.) You pull your hand away and begin to twist your long fingers in your lap, listening to each pop. You used to bite your nails, but today they're so short your teeth have nothing to latch on to.
(are you beautiful?) (no. damien plays with me anyway, though.) Your fingers come up to rip through snarled, matted hair. In the dark you can't see it but you have a distant memory of looking in a mirror, strings still attached, and seeing it shine blonde in the dim lighting. You haven't cut it since they stole you away, so it reaches down to your waist. Once you've brushed it with your fingers you begin to weave it into a braid that loops around your head even though you know very well that it will quickly fall out of place without anything to secure it. It was how you used to wear it before you became their puppet.
(what was it like before?) (it hurts to remember.) (try. please?)
When you were still young your parents used to keep you inside, protecting you from everything they thought might shatter your gentle mind. You didn't know it at the time but you were different in the way you absorbed anything taught to you like a sponge, regurgitating certain bits of information at the most random of times. Your mind was always cluttered with thoughts and ideas and it hurt for you to try and sort them out so you didn't. Your teachers said you were brilliant. Others called you crazy. (which were you?) (based on my behavior, i would guess i was a little bit of both. it's not uncommon.) In your bedroom you would read books about mathematics, chemistry, and ancient fairytales. You admit at the time you were slightly off, but now you have unraveled so that you are completely unhinged.
There was a time when you weren't. Your parents weren't wealthy and they had to send you to work in the factories as soon as you were old enough. (what was it like?) (polluted. hot. it had a concrete ceiling. i couldn't see the stars.) There was a certain order to the factory work that helped you sort through the thoughts in your mind, separating intelligence and insanity. It was bliss and your parents were so proud, they starting letting you go out more. You still remember the day you were walking, all by yourself, and the nice man asked to show you his dollhouse. (that was the day.) (everything changed.)
Since then you have been theirs. (ancient philosophers that man belongs to no one, not even himself, but i don't believe them.) (why not?) (because i belong to the stines.) They're twisted, insane, but you've never been one to judge. Perhaps they are simply confused by their own intelligence, as you were. Still, you can't help but shrink back slightly when you hear the door open, your hands pulling close to your chest. (what is it? what's happening?)
"Time to play."
(where are you?) (the footsteps above and slightly cooler temperatures indicate that they house us beneath another structure, most likely their home or some other building owned by them. based off of the smoke that sometimes clings to their clothes, I'd deduce that we're still somewhere in District Three.) You've been living the nightmare for a long time now. You've memorized the faces around you, the sounds from above, the taste of the air. Sometimes when your head is your own you tilt it back, heart aching, and wish for the stars. (stars?) (self-luminous celestial bodies consisting of masses of gas held together by their own gravity in which the energy generated by nuclear reactions in the interiors are balanced by the outflow of energy to the surface, and the inward-directed gravitational forces are balanced by the outward-directed gas and radiation pressures. in almost all cases they are only visible from the surface of the earth at night.) (where are the stars, mercy?) Your eyes flutter closed and you whisper, your voice so soft you doubt any of the other prisoners hear you. "Forget the stars. Forget the stars."
(gone. out of my reach.)
Your fingers move from the bars of your cage to your face, rubbing at the muscles there. They feel over thin eyebrows and wide blue eyes, dipping into hollow cheeks. (are you starving?) (yes.) You were always thin but their abuse has made you positively skeletal, skin pulled taught over bones and joints so that you look like the puppet they so desperately want you to be. Your hand dips down and runs over your prominent collarbone before pressing against your rib cage, feeling your fluttering heartbeat. (seventy five beats a minute. normal.) (you're still alive.) (barely.) You pull your hand away and begin to twist your long fingers in your lap, listening to each pop. You used to bite your nails, but today they're so short your teeth have nothing to latch on to.
(are you beautiful?) (no. damien plays with me anyway, though.) Your fingers come up to rip through snarled, matted hair. In the dark you can't see it but you have a distant memory of looking in a mirror, strings still attached, and seeing it shine blonde in the dim lighting. You haven't cut it since they stole you away, so it reaches down to your waist. Once you've brushed it with your fingers you begin to weave it into a braid that loops around your head even though you know very well that it will quickly fall out of place without anything to secure it. It was how you used to wear it before you became their puppet.
(what was it like before?) (it hurts to remember.) (try. please?)
When you were still young your parents used to keep you inside, protecting you from everything they thought might shatter your gentle mind. You didn't know it at the time but you were different in the way you absorbed anything taught to you like a sponge, regurgitating certain bits of information at the most random of times. Your mind was always cluttered with thoughts and ideas and it hurt for you to try and sort them out so you didn't. Your teachers said you were brilliant. Others called you crazy. (which were you?) (based on my behavior, i would guess i was a little bit of both. it's not uncommon.) In your bedroom you would read books about mathematics, chemistry, and ancient fairytales. You admit at the time you were slightly off, but now you have unraveled so that you are completely unhinged.
There was a time when you weren't. Your parents weren't wealthy and they had to send you to work in the factories as soon as you were old enough. (what was it like?) (polluted. hot. it had a concrete ceiling. i couldn't see the stars.) There was a certain order to the factory work that helped you sort through the thoughts in your mind, separating intelligence and insanity. It was bliss and your parents were so proud, they starting letting you go out more. You still remember the day you were walking, all by yourself, and the nice man asked to show you his dollhouse. (that was the day.) (everything changed.)
Since then you have been theirs. (ancient philosophers that man belongs to no one, not even himself, but i don't believe them.) (why not?) (because i belong to the stines.) They're twisted, insane, but you've never been one to judge. Perhaps they are simply confused by their own intelligence, as you were. Still, you can't help but shrink back slightly when you hear the door open, your hands pulling close to your chest. (what is it? what's happening?)
"Time to play."
odair
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